


(This Probably Wasn’t) How it Was Supposed To Be

by hellostarlight20



Series: Unnamed Nine/Rose smutty fun [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A Christmas Secret Santa fic, But does not include Christmas, Came from a prompt, F/M, Fluff, Romance, only smut, some talking, there is fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellostarlight20/pseuds/hellostarlight20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine x Rose. In a Bed. With Each Other. Will definitely be NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (make-up) DW Secret Santa fic for whatwecanfic who wanted Rose x Nine (or Rose x Ten) and "I love forced platonic sleeping arrangement or fake marriage tropes! smutty. Happy ending :)"
> 
> Thoughts, disclaimers, warnings, and other randomness: I have no idea where this came from. I started writing, this appeared on my screen, and here you have it. This is un-beta’ed and really not plotted. But I’ve read it over a few times and think it (mostly) works. Hope you enjoy!

“You couldn’t have just said _This is Rose—she’s my Plus One_?” Rose hissed as they were escorted to the small bedchamber.

The Doctor knew it’d be small. Because there was no way, with the turn this day had taken, that it’d be a spacious suite. Oh no. It was going to be the tiniest, most constrict, most tempting cupboard either of them had ever seen. Possibly had ever been invented.

Tempting?  
No, he hadn’t meant to say tempting.  
He knew he hadn’t.

“Or friend. This is Rose, my friend.” She hissed, voice still quiet. “You’ve said that before, too!”

Usually he just said _This is Rose_. After all, did more need saying?

But Rose’s hand was still in his and her scent circled around him and damn it, how had they ended up in this predicament?

“It just sort of slipped out,” the Doctor mumbled. He in no way wanted their escort to overhear this conversation.

Not that he wanted to have this conversation.

Rose snorted but remained quiet. Good. It gave him a chance to think of a brilliant excuse not to stay overnight in a tiny cupboard of a room. With Rose. Big Time Lord Brain; he had to be able to think of something.

Of course he couldn’t quite recall how they’d agreed to spend the night in the first place. The Doctor squinted at the door—rough wood at least 10 inches thick, with a heavy looking deadbolt. He couldn’t say why he was so fixated on the door.

Literally, he couldn’t say.

Because then he’d have to confess his thoughts to Rose. Thoughts about thickness and soundproofing and the noises she may or may not make when he—

“Doctor?”

She was looking at him funny, eyebrows drawn together, lips slightly parted, eyes narrowed in concern—or suspicion. He couldn’t tell, not over the sudden roaring of his blood and the pounding of his hearts. Then she nodded toward the door, standing open with the very grateful woman bowing deeply toward them and waiting expectantly.

“For the man who saved our most sacred Mh’aosle and his most beloved and adored wife.”

Rose choked beside him.

The Doctor floundered.

“Yes. Ah…thanks. Yes, thank you,” he said and nodded decisively.

With his free hand, he gestured into the room, grinned at the woman with a smile that no doubt looked as daft as it felt and very reluctantly released Rose’s hand.

Without her touch, he felt like he was falling. Not just spinning with the turn of the planet, a lovely little moon in the Praxial System, but falling. Or flying. No. falling. Without Rose’s hand in his, her touch to ground him, the Doctor fell.

He cleared his throat, closed the door with more force than necessary, slid the bolt home without looking at it and prayed to every god, deity, superior being, and groundhog (just in case) that he wouldn’t mess everything up tonight.

He had no faith in his ability.

None.

Because Rose was turning to face him, hair pulled enticingly off her neck (yes, he meant enticingly, take that Universe) and lips curled into a wide grin (damn that teasing tongue of hers) with her hands on her hips. She looked round the room, not quite the size of a cupboard but damn near with the way the walls closed in on him and the way her scent filled his throat and consumed his senses.

“So, husband.”

His cock absolutely did not twitch with the way her tongue wrapped around that word.

“What’s wrong?”

Suddenly Rose was all conciliatory concern. She closed the distance between them in two quick strides and retook his hand. The Doctor released a breath of contentment. The ground stabilized beneath his feet and the free-fall through the universe steadied just enough for him to focus.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rose was saying and it took him a moment to realize what she meant. “They don’t have to know we’re not married. I was just winding you up. You said they were grateful, yeah? That we stopped the pirates form harvesting their whale thingys?”

“The Mh’aosle,” he said absently.

This was only their third trip since Pete Tyler and a hit and run and rows that had to be better off left to humans and domestics and…and…but her hand was still tight in his and now her thumb brushed along the back of his knuckles. A steadying pressure that was going to drive him barmy in a moment.

He refused to let go. Refused to fall again.

The Doctor looked down at Rose, so concerned for him. Refused to fall anywhere but at her feet.

He cleared his throat.

“The Mh’aosle,” he repeated stronger than before with far more emphasis than necessary. “Their song is revered far and wide across this galaxy.”

He’d said that earlier. In a ramble of information as they realized they’d materialized onboard the pirate’s ship directly near a holding tank where the Mh’aosle were trapped. He stopped and cleared his throat.

He really hated repeating himself.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, words jumbled and thick on his tongue.

Rose flinched back. “I know,” she said softly, voice heavy. But then smiled again, a half lift of her lips. The Doctor tried not to stare…and failed. “It’s only one night. I think we can survive one night in the same bed together.”

“I don’t need much sleep, me,” he said and suddenly thought that particular physiological quirk was the stupidest, worst idea Time Lord Biology had ever had.

An entire night in the same small bed with Rose Tyler?

Sounded like heaven. The Doctor tilted his head at the small bed with two thin pillows and a heavy wool blanket. Or every level of Dante’s hell combined, shaken, and stirred.

It was a toss-up.

“What are you going to do while I sleep then?” she asked and stepped back. Dropped his hand.

His fingers curled into themselves, but he didn’t reach for her in a blind panic like he wanted. He stuffed his hands in his leather jacket and curled them into fists. Shrugging, the Doctor looked at the window, more like an arrow slit covered by a heavy tapestry, and wondered that himself.

“Read most likely.” He dug in his pockets for a thick book on pan-dimensional physics and brandished it like a trophy. Or a shield. He couldn’t decide which. “Want your kit?”

Rose nodded and took her small bag without looking at him. The knots normally constricting his heart tightened. Damn. What did he say to fix this? What did he say to make it all right between them? What did he say to make sleeping in the same bed as Rose Tyler safe and sane and not the temptation it was?

What did he say to her to make her understand that _‘This is my wife, Rose’_ wasn’t as much a slip as he’d tried to play it off as?

Maybe he should skip the words and simply kneel at her feet, a willing supplicant.

Rose took her small bag, dumped out the toothbrush, with Venusian cinnamon (she preferred the spearmint but wanted to try all the flavors), and 23rd century face cleansing wipes, and kept her back to him. He happened to know she also had clean knickers in that bag—he’d spent far too long _not_ thinking about them—and a pair of sleep shorts and vest top.

Maybe he should skip the words and the kneeling and bang his head against the stone wall. At least it’d stop him from thinking. Probably.

Not with his luck.  
Or his fixation on all things Rose.

The Doctor ran a hand over his close shorn hair and dragged his eyes from the curve of Rose’s bum as she leaned over the small vanity with a basin and water and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Why hadn’t he insisted to returning to the TARDIS tonight?

Who cared about the walk and the Mh’aosle who were only now beginning to calm down and swim peacefully along the shoreline? Who cared about the ever-so-grateful Praxians? Who cared about his sanity?

He was staying right here.

The Doctor idly wondered if there was any therapist in the entire universe capable of not going barmy themselves if he hired them on.

_(Rose, a little voice in the back of his head whispered. There’s always Rose.)_

“Are you coming to bed?”

The Doctor jerked from his thoughts, hoped it didn’t look like a marionette on speed, and unerringly found her gaze. Her warm brown eyes were on his, holding his gaze steadily. She’d changed.

Her breasts were outlined by the clinging white cotton of her top, high and round. Nipples pointed and hard against the fabric. He most certainly did not lick his lips, thank you. And those shorts—why were her shorts so short? Shouldn’t they cover more than…than…oh, but then she turned and pulled the heavy blanket down the bed.

Those shorts were perfect. Clung to her bum and hips and…was she wearing knickers underneath?

Dear lord she was trying to kill him.

No, no, she was. There they were—a hint of green beneath the red shorts.

The Doctor sucked in a deep breath—and instantly regretted it. All he could smell was Rose. The fading scent of her bath soap and matching scented lotion—coco butter and green tea today. And the deeper, muskier scent of Rose he hadn’t spent many a day cataloging with each of his many senses.

Except taste. Never that.

Had he moved closer to the bed? No, his feet were firmly planted exactly where he’d stood for the last…the last…he lost track of time.

Frantic now, the Doctor breathed deeply again (big mistake, the enticing scent of Rose only swam deeper through him.) 

The room had shrunk. Was there Time Lord technology here on Praxial? Smaller on the inside?

“Doctor?”

He cleared his throat and tried to look annoyed. He had a sinking suspicion he looked like a gaping cod fish. But he brandished his book on whatever he had stuffed in his pocket like a sword. Or a shield. And grinned madly.

Mad man in a box, right? He needed to live up to the hype.

“Na,” he said and tried, really he did, to tear his gaze from hers. “Just gonna read. You get some sleep, Rose.” His voice had gone softer, lower. Not the growl that wanted to escape, the growl he kept locked up with locks that insisted on slipping open. He did have some self-preservation left. But definitely more intimate.

“We’ll leave in the morning.”

Her head tilted to the side. “Where?”

“Anywhere you want!” He probably said that too loud. Was it bouncing off the increasingly closer walls? He glared at the walls, just in case this was some elaborate trap to squash them to death.

No, they hadn’t moved. He was exactly the same distance from them as he’d been since walking into the room. Then it was the sound of his blood rushing through his two hearts and roaring in his ears like the Unending Waterfall on Heyertonia.

What was the question?

“No,” Rose said with that tongue, that gorgeous, tempting tongue teasing the side of her mouth. “I mean where are you going to read?”

In a chair of course. But the words caught in his throat and in the split second before the Doctor finally tore his gaze from Rose’s, he mentally cataloged the contents of the room.

Bed—check.  
Vanity—check.  
Small (smaller) room with toilet—check.  
Arrow window with tapestry—check.  
Small bedside table with glow-light—check.  
Bed—check…

Damn.

But he cleared his throat and gamely pushed on. “Oh, I’ll just sit by window.”

“Don’t be silly.” And Rose was shaking her head as if he couldn’t hear the increase in her heartbeat or see the widening of her eyes. She licked her lips and like a moth to a flame, his gaze riveted on the movement.

“Come on, I’ll scoot over. You can have the side by the light thingy.” Had her voice caught? Yes. Yes it had.

His eyes narrowed. But somehow, he wasn’t quite sure how, his feet moved and his legs followed and before his higher brain functions caught up with the rest of him (the Doctor was just happy he _had_ some higher brain functions left) he was seated on the side of the bed.

The bed with Rose Tyler in it.

This might be heaven or it just might be hell.  
The jury was still out.

Rose shifted. Her scent enveloped him. And the Doctor gave up. He gave up fighting and leaned over to untie his boots, slip off his socks. He gave up pretending he hadn’t wanted this (welllll…maybe not precisely this, but it was so damn close). And he gave up all pretense of finding whatever sanity he had left.

Because when he swung his legs onto the bed, the damned tiny bed, far too tiny for two, let alone…oh. Well. Rose slipped beneath the covers and kissed his cheek.

“Good night, Doctor.”

He made a show of settling the book on his lap as if he had every intention of reading each and every word and remembering all he’d read and not obsessing over every movement of Rose’s breath or beat of her heart or sigh in her sleep. But he seemed to have also shed his leather coat.

When had that happened?

And then Rose was curling onto her side and wiggling beneath the wool blanket and how had her bum managed to press against his left thigh?

His skin burned where she touched him. Through her thin, oh so thin shorts and his jeans that didn’t seem nearly thick enough right now. Burned hot and fast and that molten heat spread through him and vanquished whatever sanity he hoped to maintain. Gone. Just like that.

He was doomed.

“Good night, Rose.”

Was that his voice? That whisper soft thread of sound? That warm hum that moved like a caress?

She reached back, took his hand, twined their fingers together like always, and rested their joined hands on her hip beneath the blankets. She sighed as if his touch brought her as much contentment as her touch did him.

The Doctor waited until Rose’s breathing evened out and her fingers slackened in his. One handed, he moved the book to the floor—whatever possessed him to think he’d not be distracted by Rose Tyler disappeared with her touch. With his same hand, he waved over the glow-light and darkened the room.

And against all better judgment, common sense, and sanity, he scooted down the bed, laid his head alongside hers, and curled his body around Rose’s.

Just for a minute. Just to know what it felt like to feel her in his arms, really feel her in his arms. Even if she never knew. And even if it never happened again (probably would never happen again) he had to know.

Just for a minute.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW + fluffiness

The Doctor had lost track of time once. (Gasping for breath on his TARDIS, fire everywhere, pain and screams and death and let it take him, too. Please. For the love of sanity please let it take him, too!)

The fact was that since Rose Tyler ran into his life, hand in his, time had little meaning. Except when he counted down the hours, minutes, seconds before she woke and smiled at him and wrapped her hand around his again.

Lying in bed with her, fully clothed though they might be, he once more lost track of time.

Had he said fully clothed? He really meant he was (mostly) fully clothed. Rose was in the skimpiest shorts and vest top he’d ever seen. Ever. Counting Leela. Good Lord, his woman was trying to kill him.

He’d die a happy man.

His woman? Should’ve used another word there…another words, another word. Nope, he couldn’t think of another one. Or two. Or a phrase. His…his what? No…not his.

 _Rose._  
Just Rose. Always Rose.

And he’d slept. In that ridiculously small bed in the ridiculously small room with Rose’s ridiculously small shorts between her bum and him. He’d slept for only 63 minutes, but it felt glorious.

Not the sleep.

Waking with her in his arms.

The Doctor wasn’t certain how that happened. Oh, he could calculate angles and the length, width, and depth of this bed, but that gave him nothing. What gave him glorious pleasure was to wake with Rose Tyler in his arms, her head on his chest, her soft breathing brushing her breasts against his jumper and her leg flung carelessly atop his thigh.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

He’d laid there, Rose in his arms, the melodious sound of the Mh’aosle song filling the air, and he’d lost track of time cataloging her breathing. Her scent. The warm way she fit against him. The sighs and the hitches in her breath and the way her fingers curled into his red jumper.

It took him ages to figure out (remember) what this feeling was. Contentment. Happiness. _Home_.

So when she stirred, when he heard the change in her heart, the shift in her breathing, the Doctor had two choices.

Which meant he really had none at all.

He probably should’ve moved. Yup, he probably should’ve extricated her from around him, eased her warmth away from him, untangled his hand from her hair, stopped lightly stroking her hip, and _moved_. Far, far away.

That was not the choice he made.

It may have been the smart choice and the safe choice and the choice he should’ve followed. But for a being who saw all that is-was-might-possibly-be, all the Doctor saw right then was Rose Tyler curled into him as if she belonged.

Sanity? What sanity?

Because he needed to face facts. He’d never been totally sane. Or possibly was the only sane one. No, not that last one, definitely the first.

Either way, Rose Tyler lying against him was the best decision he’d ever made. (Excepting stealing his TARDIS of course. Best ship in the universe, there.) Even if he didn’t remember how this particular position (he didn’t even want to get started on the many, _many_ positions they could be in) came to be.

So as Rose woke, a deep breath here, and stretch there, her fingers tighter around his, the Doctor stayed where he was.

It was the single bravest thing he’d ever done.

Rose, however, jerked back, scooted across the (definitely) too small bed and flailed as she lost her balance.

He reached out, snagged her about the waist, tugged her onto the bed before she fell, and maybe, if he just happened to also tug her onto his body as he lay on the pathetically small bed, well…he already decided he was insane.

“Good morning,” he said. Or thought he said. But his voice was a husky timber of sound that rumbled out of his chest more than he spoke the words.

“Morning.” Her breath caught and her eyes widened and she looked so beautiful and rumpled and perfect he did the only thing he could do.

He tangled his hands in her hair, the fine, flyaway strands catching on his rough fingers, and kissed her.

It was hard to say who was more surprised at his actions—the Doctor or Rose. Her mouth opened to his, a soft moan breathed against his lips, and she melted against him. Her hands were warm on his chest, one each over his hearts, her hips over his, lightly rocking against his increasingly-difficult-to-ignore erection.

The Doctor decided not to ignore it.

He was already so far down the rabbit hole, or high on the mushrooms, or lost in his own fantasies—what did it matter? And Rose was warm and soft over him, her tongue hesitatingly brushing against his, little sighs and whimpers tempting him further.

Insanity? He’d stay right here, thank you. Nowhere else he’d rather be.

Except buried in Rose’s wet warmth.

And wasn’t that a brilliant idea. With one smooth movement, hand still in her hair cradling her head, the Doctor rolled them. He pressed his aching cock against the heat, that oh-so-tempting heat between Rose’s smooth, pale thighs and kissed her.

Slow and deep and yes. Tasting her mouth, her hot, wet mouth and all the glorious flavors that were Rose’s mouth and tongue and—“Dear God, do that again.”

Had he said that aloud? Yes? Good. He meant it. Her teeth once again sank into his lower lip and tugged and he shuddered.

She gave a little sound, not of protest, not when her legs wrapped around his hips, and her blunt nails scraped through his close-cropped hair. Not when she attacked his mouth with passion and need and those sounds. Those hungry sounds from the back of her throat.

The Doctor planned to spend hours, weeks, years… _lifetimes_ cataloging the noises Rose made in the back of her throat. And what he could do to hear more of them. Hear every single one of them.

Like skim his fingers beneath her top, skin warm and yielding against his touch. She sucked in a breath there, arched into his touch. One hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other skimmed down his spine, toyed with the hem, and then…

Oh then her fingers, her small warm fingers slipped beneath his jumper and touched him.

“Rose,” he breathed.

“Yes,” she said. Mouth against his, every word, every permutation of that single word, clear across his lips. “Doctor, yes.”

Her breasts were warm and heavy in his hands, nipples already hard. He brushed a finger over the peak, felt it harden further to his touch. He wanted to worship her, spend eternity tasting her and touching her. Listening to her cry out and beg and shatter beneath him. And then he wanted to start over again.

Along with his sanity, his patience had also disappeared.

It might have had something to do with Rose’s hand on the waistband of his jeans and the way her hips rocked against his. Or it might have had something to do with how her tongue currently licked down his neck. Or her teeth nipping at the base of his throat.

Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, whatever it was, it was Rose. And her touch, her passion, her body wrapped around his, made him snap.

He’d worship her again, in the TARDIS, in a much larger bed.

Later.

He tugged her shorts and knickers down, tossed them aside. Her top followed. As did his jumper and jeans and pants. And then she was naked beneath him, gloriously warm and flushed and wet and naked.

Her mouth moved frantically against his, her fingers cupped and danced over his cock. Her hips rolled against his touch and he shuddered. His fingers slipped into her heat, his teeth closed over a nipple, and she bucked hard against him. 

And again. And then she was shouting his name as she came, hard and fast against his hand, her fingers digging into his shoulders and back, her body arched into his touch. Her skin slick with sweat and scented with completion and he wanted more.

He wanted it all.

The Doctor withdrew his hand and deliberately licked his fingers clean. He did not miss the guttural sound of pure pleasure Rose made. Or the hungry look in her gaze.

He cataloged it away for later.

Kissing up her inner thigh, over her hips, along her belly, he paid special attention to her breasts, her nipples, the cries and sighs she made when he teased the hard points. Kissed her hard. Knew she tasted herself there and didn’t care.

Her nails clawed at his back and her thighs pressed hard to his hips and he wanted more. Took more. All. Everything.

“Now,” she panted, kissing him anywhere she could reach. “Now. Doctor,” she said, hips rocking against his. “Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.”

He thrust into her in one hard move. Stilled. Waited.

Nope. The universe did not explode. Or implode. Or collapse. Huh. Just an urban myth then, Time Lords having sex with a human causing the destruction of all.

Take that Universe.

He slowly, slowly pulled out until only the tip of his cock remained inside her. Slammed back home. Again. And again. Harder and faster and he lifted her legs onto his shoulders and caught her lips with his. The kiss was sloppy and hard and he felt Rose tightening around him.

Her nails dug into his back, her body meeting his every thrust.

“Yes,” Rose panted. Chanted. “Yes. Doctor. Yes.” 

“Come for me, Rose,” he ordered. Or maybe begged. Desperate to feel her tightening around him. “Come for me.”

Rose cried out his name and shattered. She looked beautiful beneath him, mouth open, body taut, orgasm cascading through her. The air tasted of her pleasure and her skin shone with her completion.

The Doctor moved harder, felt his own climax tightening through him. Caught her hands, fingers twined together and leaned hard against them, but he needed that touch, that connection. Rose opened her eyes and he came. Slammed hard into her one last time and gave her all he was.

His arms gave out and he collapsed atop her. Mind blank, senses filled with only Rose, time spinning madly around them and through them and oh—had the universe really disintegrated because he’d just made love to Rose?

The Doctor opened his eyes and saw her watching him. They’d moved, him once more on his back, her curled against his side. Fingers in his, warm and comforting and steadying. Perfection.

Well, if this was the afterlife, he’d take it. Thanks.

“What was that?” Rose asked, head back on his chest, his naked chest. Her hand felt tense in his, but there was no way he’d ever let her go. Wasn’t sure how to.

“That was fantastic sex,” he said. Was that smugness in his tone? Why yes, and he wasn’t a damn bit sorry for it.

“Yeah.” She breathed out a chuckle but then pulled back.

The Doctor had a feeling her pulling back was metaphorical as well as physical and panicked. Panicked? Yes. Yes, that was definitely panic. He stayed where he was. Looked up at her, open and vulnerable and there, right there for her to see.

“No…I mean yes.”

She licked her lips and he wondered if there’d ever be a time he didn’t watch that movement with utter fascination and the overwhelming desire to follow the swipe of her tongue. Taste the lips she tasted.

“But I mean…well, I mean was that…” she stopped, took a deep breath, and finally lifted her gaze from his chest to his eyes. “I mean yes, that was pretty fantastic sex.”

The blush tinting her cheeks made him want to reach out and cup her face, run his thumb over her skin. And start their pretty fantastic sex all over again.

With Super-Time-Lord Willpower, he stayed where he was. Naked beneath her gaze in every sense of the word.

“I mean what brought that on?” Rose asked in a rush, words tumbling over each other. “What changed? What happened?”

Then she looked panicked as well as scared.

“Oh, God!” She scrambled onto her knees, breasts bouncing so very enticingly, nipples still hard. He did not move. Would not move. What was she going on about? Drugs?

“Did they?” She apparently repeated. “Did they drug you? Was it the pirates? Or these Praxians? Was it something you ate? Did it affect you differently? You said it was safe, the food.”

“The food was perfectly safe.” His fingers twined with hers, warm and home. “I wouldn’t let you eat anything that wasn’t, Rose.”

“I mean you,” she snapped.

But he heard the concern beneath her harshness. “I wasn’t drugged.” He grinned at her. “Promise.”

Rose nodded, but continued to study him through narrowed eyes. “The whales, then? Those Mh’aosle? Is it their song? Does it have some sort of sex-effect on Time Lords?”

“Sex-effect?” He repeated, bemused. “You think I’m drugged? Or hypnotized?” He narrowed his own eyes at her. “Rose,” he huffed, annoyed, “what makes you think that?”

Rose swallowed and tugged her hand from his, tugging the wool blanket up and over her body as she did so. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words caught and only a frustrated sound of hopelessness came out.

“I’ve just never seen you like that before,” she admitted in a measured voice that told him she weighed each word choice carefully. “I’ve never seen you lose control.” Here she shuddered and he watched her skin flush again, eyes bright with renewed arousal.

“I didn’t think…” she trailed off and licked her lips again. Cleared her throat. Took a deep breath and that damn blanket was hiding her breasts from his gaze, her skin from his touch. “I didn’t think you…that you were interested in me like that.”

“Ah.”

Oh. Damn that Time Lord Mask of Indifference. Or was it self-preservation? Either way, the Doctor now realized that it had been enough for her not to understand.

He reached out and tugged the blanket away from her. Not to ogle her breasts, though they were very nice breasts and fit perfectly in his hands. But to pull her against him. Skin to skin. The universe righted itself once again.

One hand stroked down her back, the other tilted her chin up to meet her gaze. “Rose, I—” The Doctor stopped. He had no idea what to say. How did one (even one as brilliant as he) tell the only woman who mattered that she mattered? That she was everything?

Good Lord, how much pressure was he about to put on her small, human, shoulders?

He couldn’t. Wasn’t going to confess how much he needed her or wanted her or…was that him? Was that his voice? Was that his mouth moving?

The Doctor listened to what he was saying. Oh. Apparently it was very easy to tell Rose Tyler she meant everything to him.

“I was not drugged or hypnotized or mesmerized or compromised in any way.” His hand brushed down her spine, over her arse. Felt her shiver and sigh into his touch. “I wanted you. No. I want you. I want to touch you.”

He leaned down and kissed her, a soft press to her lips. “I want to taste you. I want to know every sound you make and how to make you scream my name until you’re hoarse.”

The Doctor sat up, settled Rose in front of him and took her hands. Her fingers automatically curled into his and she didn’t seem to notice the blanket falling away. He did. He just chose not to stare.

For now, this moment, her touch was enough.

“You make me better,” he said in a rush of words and truth and emotion. “You make me stop and think and you stop me when you think I should be stopped. But you hold my hand. Always.”

The Doctor looked down and smiled softly. When he looked back at Rose, her eyes were glassy with tears and a slight smile curved her lips.

“I want to touch you all the time because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”

One hand slipped from his and cupped his cheek, fingers a brush over his skin. “Doctor,” she sighed. “Why didn’t you ever say?”

“Thought I had.” He shrugged uncomfortably awkward now. “Thought you know. Thought you saw the wild desperation in my gaze whenever I took your hand.”

“I do now.”

And before he could confess more, she closed the distance between them and kissed him. And who cared if the universe really was on the verge of implosion? Or explosion? Or any other –osion?

He’d die in his beloved’s arms and never look back.

 ********  
As they walked back to the TARDIS, Rose’s head leaning against his arm, the Doctor thought he’d take her to Women Wept next. Frozen waves and cold beauty amongst the desolation. And maybe, with her hand in his, her head against his arm, her warmth and love and compassion wrapping around him, maybe then he could finally start to come to terms with the destruction caused by the Time War.

Caused by him.

“So what was with the _This is my wife, Rose_?” she asked.

The Doctor tensed. Then sighed. Well, if this was what insanity felt like, or the end of the universe, what did it matter, one last confession?

“Just sorta slipped out,” he admitted.

“Wife?” She looked up at him. “Of all the words used to describe a couple…” she floundered. “Oh. Are we a couple?”

“Yes.”

She peered up at him as they moved along the shoreline, the water calm now, the Mh’aosle song distant and beautiful as it wrapped around them.

“Were we a couple before?” Her cheeks flushed and she looked tempting and vulnerable and his. “Before this morning, I mean. We were a couple before the really fantastic sex?”

“Yes.”

“So…wife?”

“Plus one works,” he admitted.

Or mine. But he didn’t say that. Not yet. Didn’t want to frighten her off when they had just got together. Then he let himself imagine what it’d be like to really call Rose his wife. The vision was stunning and breathtaking and he grabbed onto it with both hands.

Damn the consequences.

“But why wife?” she persisted. “Why call me your _wife_? It was very specific.”

The Doctor took a deep breath, wondered where the barriers around his hearts had disappeared to (probably the same alternate dimension as his sanity which had taken a trip to follow his common sense) and confessed. “Because in my hearts, you are my wife. You’re everything to me.”

“Oh.” It was a breath and a sigh and hope and oh. When he looked down at her, her gaze burning and open, he saw everything he felt reflected back. “Yes.”

Rose stopped, leaned up on her toes, body pressed to his. Oh, yes. Perfect.

Her body fit perfectly against his, his hands settled perfectly on her hips and when Rose fitted her mouth over his, that, too, fit perfectly.

“Rose.” A word. A name. An invocation. A promise. Forever.

“Yes.”

Rose cleared her throat, happy and bright and glowing like the sun as she beamed up at him, fingers combing through his cropped hair, body pressed to his. His sun.

“Show me something fabulous?” she asked, words a light caress over his mouth. “Somewhere just the two of us.” She paused, her laughter light and carefree. “The two of us and the TARDIS, of course.”

His laughter rumbled in his chest and he wondered if she read his mind. “I know just the place.”

Slowly, deliberately, Rose slid down his body, back onto her heels. Her short, blunt nails scrapped along the back of his neck and the Doctor shuddered.

“As soon as I show you the stars.”

Her laughter rang across the beach, happier and more potent than the Mh’aosle song.

“That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.” But her hand wrapped around his and her eyes caught his, happy and affectionate. Love.

“Sort of, yeah,” he admitted. “But it got you to travel with me.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Doctor,” Rose said and her voice was soft and open and pulled at his heart. Tugged at the knots in his chest until something loosened and he breathed in the belief that she meant it.

She meant everything to him. And he suddenly believed he meant everything to her, too.


End file.
